


The Passing of Power

by Tilperiel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Imladris, Lindon (Tolkien), Minor battle descriptions, Vilya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 00:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20349379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilperiel/pseuds/Tilperiel
Summary: As told from Gil-Galad's perspective, the passing of The Ring of Air to Elrond





	The Passing of Power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esmeraldablazingsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmeraldablazingsky/gifts).

> This work is inspired by a piece entitled: 'Take this and make something beautiful' by the wonderful artist esmeraldablazingsky

The weather was dreary and grey, not quite raining and not quite dry and because of that, the air was thick with a fine, misty sort of rain. The kind that made you bundle your cloak about yourself a little closer, duck your head and squint your eyes as you slowly became soaked through, or better still, had you stay indoors beside the fire.

Which was precisely where Ereinion Gil-Glad was standing at that moment. In his palace home upon the cliff top, the high king held a steaming cup between his hands to soak up the comforting warmth and raising it to his lips, he blew over the top before taking a sip, whilst watching the waves crash upon the shore through the window. The clouds roiled through the sky; a storm gathering with all of its drama and he fancied it was something he might like to capture in paints, but he hadn’t mastered the art to his own satisfaction and didn’t have the inclination at that moment, nor the time, to dedicate himself to improvement. Perhaps he could take it up when all of this business was over, he thought idly, then huffed in soft amusement. If instincts were correct, then that might be sooner rather than later for a good deal of them. Especially if those with foresight were to be believed.

For now however, he pushed such thoughts from his mind, for he had other pressing matters at hand.

He raised his cup again and found that the liquid had cooled and he blinked down at it, for he must have been stood for longer than he had realised. Time was getting on and he had things to do, so he set the cold tea aside, straightened the cuffs on his shirt and left, for he had a meeting to attend and it would be rude to keep people waiting.

* * *

“The main force is defeated and those that remain in Eregion are pushed back. Soon we’ll have them all sent packing to Mordor, where they can do no more harm.” Tar-Minastir was leaning his hands on the table before him, high colour in his cheeks as he spoke in an impassioned voice, then raised one to point at a place on the map upon it. “My people have already arrived at the mouth of the Gwathló and I’ve heard word from  Admiral Ciryatur that they will be ready to advance as soon as they are given word. Let me send my messenger now and we shall catch them unawares; if we delay then more will be lost. Elrond cannot hold them off forever on his own. Mark my words.”

They were gathered within the War Room, a light and airy space with tall windows facing southwards, which had not always been a place for such things. Indeed, it had once been a playroom and filled with the sound of happiness, but now instead of toys and children was dominated by a very large oak table with a very detailed map placed upon it. There were mountains and rivers and valleys and the sea in relief, as it was not of paper but carven and fitted together in large pieces.

Tar-Minastir, who was the heir apparent to the throne of Númenor, had a very serious expression, as he had always carried since Gil-Galad had known him. He was flanked by two of the members of his office who were generals in high ranking. They were equally as serious as he and neither had said anything for the time being, seemingly content to glower at the map and occasionally one of the elves gathered. Gil-Galad knew that the Númenorians were not overly fond of allowing him to have the final word in command, but he firmly kept his position and so far they had not questioned it. He didn’t think that they were likely to either, thankfully, for as much as they thought highly of themselves, they weren’t so lacking in common sense or self-preservation.

There had been a moment, much earlier on when their ships had first arrived and between them all they had need to set up a cabinet, when he had thought that the mortal king was going to make a play for control and leadership. Gil-Galad had simply laid a hand over his arm and taken him aside for a quiet word. There he had subtly drawn on what power had been granted him through Celebrimbor’s arts and no more had needed to be said since. The elves might well have asked for their help, but that didn’t mean for a moment that they were willing to give deference to them in exchange.

The Númenorian was a good leader, as these things went and the people he had chosen to have under his own command were competent and loyal and they all had much to thank them for. Gil-Galad and the rest of the Eldar were only too aware that they would have been over-run and defeated already had they not arrived to provide aid. Of course, they had good cause to do so and it was not out of charity and good-will alone that they had come, but nonetheless, they thankfully worked well together, aside from a little tension, which was only to be expected.

Ever since Sauron had revealed himself and had brought forth his attack upon them, the elves had fought tirelessly against him and his armies of orcs and wargs and those Men whom he had given false promise to and were now under his sway. There were far more of those than the elves had been expecting, which had dismayed them greatly. It was especially hard for those who were originally of Finrod’s people, as many still held dearly to the friendships they made in Nargothrond.

Hope, however, had come in the form of a ship. Unlooked for and a shock to those who saw its arrival, Círdan was alone in being seemingly unphased as the billowing white sails had come closer and closer, until it had become plain to all that this was no ship from Númenor that was coming to harbour. The pale grey wood and the design too spoke of lands beyond the Western horizon, where the Eldar dwelt in peace with the Valar and their kin.

For a while they had thought that was going to be enough; the emissaries from Valinor. They had believed that the Istari, with their deep wisdom and great powers combined, would be able to push back Sauron’s army and send him once more into to the deep and dark pits in the land he had called Mordor; taken as his own fortress in a small and evil parody of his former master’s. They had their hope rekindled too when one of their own had also been in their number; Glorfindel of the Golden Flower of Gondolin. He of whom great songs were still sung and tales told of his valour and courage. On seeing him step from the ship, alive and strong of spirit, many whom had known him in his first life were overcome and fell weeping to their knees. His being there served to bring them hope that all those they had lost might also be returned and he had roused them all into renewing their spirits, that they might not be overtaken by the shadows that loomed over them.

That had been the time when the tide had then finally turned, it was true. As all eyes studied the map before them, they could see that with their combined forces victory was at last within their grasp, if only they could hold out just a little while longer. It had not been without loses and even now they were on a precipice, for even  _ with _ the aid of a high-elf lord of great power at his command, Elrond would be over-run, sure as anything, if the Númenorian admiral’s plans failed.

Gil-Galad said nothing for the moment, gaze fixed with a look of deep contemplation at the map himself. His eyes followed the lines that marked the rivers and roads and the markers with their colours that represented the forces that  Tar-Minastir was discussing now. The red pieces that showed where Sauron’s army was currently located, covering less of the map now than it had before, but still too big an area for anyone’s liking. The sea-blue pieces that showed where the Númenoreans had pushed inland with their fleet along the river to where their king was now pointing. Then the blue and gold pieces that represented the elves of Lindon under his own command, as they steadfastly held the line of the River Lhûn. Finally, there were the green pieces that represented the elves of Imladris where Elrond was besieged; hemmed in and beleaguered and troubling him the most.

“Well, what say you? To tarry further is folly! We cannot afford to bide our time, nor can you hide your people away in that valley for long before they’re overcome.” Tar-Minastir placed both hands on the table and leant in, clearly impatient with Gil-Galad after he had made no fast reply to his earlier call to action.

Wearily Gil-Galad sighed. “My liege-“ the captain at his elbow leaned in and spoke quietly, but he simply raised a hand slowly and drew in a deep breath, drawing his eyes away from the green tokens and fixed them instead on Tar-Minastir.

“My people are not  _ hidden _ in the valley; they are capable as any and have not only held back Sauron’s army from advancing and destroying those whom they protect, a good proportion of whom are Men, I might add,” Gil-Galad said evenly and calmly, “but they have defeated a good proportion of those forces whilst they’ve been at it. Do not make out that you’re the only ones here capable of doing so.”

Tar-Minastir looked as if he were about to counter this, already straightening with a look of defiance but Gil-Galad simply spoke again before he could intercede.

“However, be that as it may, yes, I do think the time is now to release your men at the river. Send your word to your admiral and I will send mine out also and we will co-ordinate the attack.” He caught Círdan’s eye over Tar-Minastir’s shoulder and nodded almost imperceptibly. The shipwright merely looked on.

“Very good,” Tar-Minastir said in clipped tones and held out a black gloved hand, the other resting on the pommel of the sword at his side.

Gil-Galad stared at it for a moment before remembering the custom and took it in his own. There was a single shake between them and then Tar-Minastir turned, his men doing the same and the Númenoreans filed out of the war chambers.

“Well handled sire. I think that put him in his place. Perhaps he migh-“ Captain Astaldion, the same one who’d whispered earlier, had spoken up the moment the door had closed, but Círdan had by now stepped forward and interrupted him smoothly.

“If I might have a word in private?” He arched a single brow at Gil-Galad, who offered him a grateful small smile then turned to the elves remaining.

“Captain, my lords, ladies. You’re dismissed for the evening. Please be here one hour sharp after dawn tomorrow morning.”

He waited for them to leave and then it was just the king left and the shipwright; his oldest friend and guardian alike. He moved to drop down into one of the chairs around the table, unused up until now for aught except a rest for hands whilst arguing around the map. He kneaded his forehead with a faint sigh, whilst Círdan plucked one of the blue and gold pieces from the table and turned it about in his fingers.

“Do you think we have any hope?” Gil-Galad said after an extended period of silence, broken only by the sound of the rain pattering on the windows outside.

“What does your instinct tell you?” Círdan asked, walking slowly around the table, studying the map from all angles.

Gil-Galad huffed an unamused breath. “My instincts count for very little these days. You’d be as good asking me what the weather will be like at a given hour next week as ask whether I think we will win or not against Sauron. It would be just as much of a guess.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Círdan said conversationally, glancing over at him briefly before resuming his studying. “You were right in your distrust of him before. You and Elrond both. A pity that Celebrimbor couldn’t listen in time.”

Gil-Galad visibly winced and swallowed, hard. The reminder wasn’t necessary, for scarce four years had passed since his death and none who’d been there would be likely to forget their last sight of the high-elven smith. Seeing his body held aloft and shot through with many arrows, the air had been filled with cries of grief from the elven forces gathered, mingled with the jeering torments of the enemy and mocking, deep and carrying laughter of Sauron at their head.

It was little wonder they’d lost that day. Blinded by rage and overwhelmed by sheer numbers, Sauron had indeed dealt them a stinging blow and they’d been forced to retreat back to the shores, in the main. Elrond, with the aid of Glorfindel, had remained inland, fortifying a safe-haven there in the valley of Imladris. They provided not only a refuge for those of Celebrimbor’s people, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain who were the smiths of Eregion, but for all free peoples who opposed Sauron and had held him back from entering the lands further south.

Gil-Galad couldn’t help but blame himself, in part at least, for Celebrimbor’s death and now he worried day and night for Elrond and those who held Imladris. He’d dropped his gaze in thought and looked up at Círdan, who’s eyes were now fixed on him. The small wooden figure, he noted, was still in his hand.

“There’s a gap,” Círdan said after a moment, “up near the lake in the mountains. You can come down there and into the green lands below and have a clear run to the valley where Elrond and Glorfindel hold out.”

“There is indeed,” Gil-Galad said, “are you suggesting it be plugged?”

Círdan shook his head slowly and Gil-Galad rose again and joined him in looking over the table, tracing the gap he was talking about.

“No,” Círdan said, “I think it should be used as a trap. We can coordinate our forces. Elrond and  Admiral Ciryatur force them together from both sides, pushing what’s left of Sauron’s army before them. Your people in  River Lhûn can hold out with a few less if they’re not so beleaguered and you can send a portion of them here.” Reaching over, Círdan placed down the blue and gold figure at the bottom of the mountain pass he’d mentioned.

Gil-Galad leaned over and hummed low. “Then we ambush them when they reach the road and forest there,” he said in a quiet, contemplating voice. He was deep in thought, having visited that place before and knowing there were strange things abroad there…things that might bring them aid, if they had a mind to. The forest in those green hills was old. A remnant of what once stretched all the way from Doriath and he nodded as he straightened, the spirit of a smile on his lips.

Maybe they had half a chance after all.

* * *

_ Be ready, we’re pushing them forwards. We have them on the run. We’re only a few miles away.  _ Círdan’s voice came to him in his mind and roused the king from his thoughts.

_ Don’t worry, we’re ready,  _ Gil-Galad returned, straightening his stance.

Touching finger and thumb to the ring upon his right hand, he scanned the lands as far as he could see to both the east and the west and strained his ears too. They’d been in place at the crossroads now since the night before, having come down from the mountains silently, passing unseen from the enemy’s eyes.

Círdan had been quite right; as soon as the Númenoreans had advanced from the west, Sauron’s forces had been forced to defend themselves. The allied forces of the elves and Men had taken them by complete surprise and a good many had fallen before the remainder had fled, leaving them victorious and keen to route the rest.

Gil-Galad had come to them then and took a great number of his elven warriors with him. They’d travelled swiftly as they could across the hills to Evendim without being seen, then around the lake and south. There they’d made their way down the hill country, to where they now lay in wait, hoping that Elrond and Glorfindel were pushing the enemy towards their position from the east.

Now, eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, he drew on his powers, as enhanced as they were, and Vilya glowed very faintly upon his finger.

_ Elrond, how goes it? _

A few seconds passed before any reply came. This was unsurprising, for he didn’t like to use Sanwë either, if he could help it. The ring he bore might bring  _ him _ aid, but for others it took more strength. No doubt Elrond needed all of his  _ and _ his concentration on the situation at hand right then, not to have to be using up vital energy on talking to him.

However, timing was crucial and they’d only get one chance at this. Growing impatient he readied to ask again, or maybe ask Glorfindel instead, although he didn’t like to upset the chain of command, when Elrond’s voice came to him. Or rather, his cry.

_ Through the trees, we’re on the open plains! We have them on the run! _

Making a quick calculation, Gil-Galad thought about where about they must be and realised it would be a few hours yet before they were in sight. That meant that  Admiral Ciryatur and  Círdan’s forces from the west would be there much sooner.

Tar-Minastir, meanwhile, was safely sat in Har-Lindon. He had deemed it unnecessary for him to need to set out personally, citing that it would be foolish to put the succession of his line at risk when there were enough forces out there already. Gil-Galad had found that irritating to put it mildly, but bit his tongue, bar a couple of pointed remarks. He’d made sure though to hold a rousing speech, whilst in his own full armour, in his vicinity before they left.

The minutes ticked by. There was nothing to be heard except for the birdsong in the trees and the occasional rustle and scrape from those behind him shuffling in place. The elves were excellent at waiting and doing so silently, with no complaint at all. These were all seasoned men and women and he trusted them implicitly, although he knew that they were sorely exhausted by this point. A few hours more and they’d yet again be forced to draw their swords and fight for their lives.

Would they all return? It wasn’t very probable and he had to forcibly turn his thoughts away from that path. Speculation on such things would do no good, although he failed to prevent the surge of guilt that came with it. Familiar as it was, he grimaced and hardened himself, instead making himself go over their strategies again, although he could recite them without thinking by now.

Finally, a noise grabbed his attention. It was a faint rumble of many hundreds of voices all shouting. His head snapped up and fixing his eyes on the far fields there came to view presently a dark line of figures coming towards them at speed.

The king stepped forth. He waited until the line grew closer, a faint murmur rippling through the troops behind him, still biding their time as they fell silent again, although the air was now thick with tension.

“Closer… _ closer…”  _ he mouthed silently to himself, not for one moment taking his eyes off the advancing line, which was messy and uneven.

The hulking forms of wargs and their riders and lone beasts with saddles still attached and even some of the great, foul serpents amongst them too; all fleeing in retreat as they were pursued by the elves and Men behind them, whilst making a din about it. He sucked in a sharp breath as  Ciryatur’s banners became clear where they were held aloft by their bearers on horseback.  Círdan had no such heraldry, passing such things off as pointless fancy, but Gil-Galad’s own standards of Royal Blue and Gold stood out above them all.

He was readying to go forth and took half a step, before there to the East another line appeared, this one far larger and the sound far louder. Elrond had arrived sooner than he had predicted. Watching with bated breath, he saw the forces from the West spot them too and falter in their steps. Those at the back were hewn down as they were overwhelmed, but soon there was a renewed frenzy from the enemy and Gil-Galad realised that they must have thought they had been sent reinforcements. With dismay he saw them turn and now attack instead of continuing to run.

“Your highness!” His general hissed at him, clearly wanting to advance and give aid, but Gil-Galad raised a gloved hand swiftly and cut him off. His own heart hammered in his chest as with wide eyes he saw one of his own men cut down and again the guilt shot through his core. He would not be hasty though, as he knew he only had one chance.

_ Do not give yourselves away too soon! Wait! _

Círdan’s voice rang in his mind and he tensed; clearly he’d done something right, for his friend and mentor agreed with his judgement. Even so, his hand twitched to the sword on his belt and he prepared himself to move, lest they be spotted first and their advantage thwarted.

Each second that passed the atmosphere grew more and more tense as the cries of battle grew louder as they neared from both sides. He could hardly stand to not be out there helping and he knew those he stood with felt the same way from the subtle movements towards weapons he saw from the corner of his eye.

Finally, the lines were before the pass in front of them and with a deep breath he drew his sword in one smooth motion.

“Now! Advance!” Gil-Galad’s clear voice cried over the din of the battlefield, his shining blade aloft before them all as the king launched his surprise attack.

The elves behind him poured out and many of their foes were felled as they stood frozen at the sight. They fell upon them, unlooked for and unexpected, before they had time to recover their wits. Soon their fair elven weapons were blackened and slick and the battle was in full flow for them now too.

Gil-Galad fought valiantly alongside them all, although his captains kept close and held his back and sides. Steel flashed and shouts and grunts were loud in his ears even beneath his helm. The iron tang of blood and the dust from the bone-dry earth that was being sent up beneath trampling feet filled their nostrils and narrowed eyes, making it harder to tell friend from foe.

There was nothing beautiful or graceful about war.

* * *

They fought hard and long and there were, of course, many losses to be accounted for at the end of it all. The battle had been won, though it was little consolation when spirits were so dimmed. Sauron, at the last, had been utterly routed. His remaining forces retreated to Mordor in the East and what was left…

What was left was the settling dust.

What was left was the blood-stained ground and hands.

What was left was the acrid smoke of the pyres that burned on the beach; now dying down as the last of the mourners finally left their vigils. Their arms over one another’s shoulders, holding onto loved ones and mournful looks as they passed by their king, who stood still upon the dunes overlooking them all. 

And what  _ he _ had left…was a small kernel of hope.

He’d made it through the battle with superficial wounds, the cream linen bandage around his right arm being the only outward sign that he’d been there at all. He fingered the edge of it lightly as he stood there; the edges slightly frayed where it had been torn to make the strip and he absently pulled off a thread to tease.

“Your highness…”

How long he’d been stood there for before the voice pulled him back to the present he couldn’t have said, but when he blinked and turned the sun was already long set and the light of the moon and the stars were casting their light upon the waters before him. He sighed.

“You need not use my title in greeting,” he said, reaching a hand to grasp Elrond’s forearm briefly before putting his hands behind his back, for it was he who had approached. “Certainly not when it is only you and I here in any case.”

Elrond gave him a small and tired looking smile. “No? Then perhaps you prefer Erenion? Or shall I revert to Quenya? I must admit though, being amongst the folk in Eregion for a while has had quite the influence on me. The Sindar are so formal with their royalty and yet so  _ informal  _ with everyone else.”

He shrugged and turned to face the water next to him, whilst Gil-Galad himself stayed watching him for a moment more before he sighed again and turned too to the water.

“Gil-Galad will do, as well you know,” he said quietly, a corner of his lips upturned in spite of his weariness. “I expect you’ll be heading back to Imladris shortly. There must be much to do there.” He didn’t say he was sorry for Elrond’s losses. That didn’t need to be said for it to be known. They were all hurting and they all bore scars, even if they might not have been visible on the outside. Elrond more than most and yet here he was, attempting small humour in spite of everything.

“I can stay as long as you need me,” Elrond said, “Glorfindel is heading back with the majority of those who wish to return with us in the morning and he’s perfectly capable of managing things while I’m here.” He hesitated and he looked at him, “as long as you don’t think I’m neglecting my duties.”

Gil-Galad made a soft noise of amusement. “You’re one of the last people I could ever accuse of neglecting your duties,” he told him and arched a brow as he turned. “Were it not for your loyalty and wisdom then we would almost certainly not be stood here together right now. We might all be resting in Mando’s Halls, or worse…”

_ Worse _ being thraldom in Mordor, which didn’t bear thinking about. He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking in his cheek and said no more on that subject.

Elrond simply looked at him quietly for a long moment, likely weighing his words, then shrugged. “We might still be yet, but we have a reprieve at least, for the time being. I know we’ve had losses but it was relatively few, thankfully. I should think that we should  _ all _ be thanking you for that move you pulled off. Quite a stroke of genius. A simple rouse and yet not one that was foreseen, so, here we are.”

“It was not my idea. You should thank Lord Círdan for that one.” Gil-Galad said.

Elrond chuckled quietly. “It would seem that we’re all thanking one another. Where are Admiral  Ciryatur and  Tar-Minastir? We should be thanking them too, not leaving them out.”

“They are mourning their dead in the manor of their people. Although I’m certain that Tar-Minastir will not be adverse to being sought out to bestow our gratitude upon him.” Gil-Galad fought to keep his voice neutral, although the small snort that Elrond failed to conceal made him smile very slightly again.

If their humour was a little darker these days, could they truly be blamed? After all they’d seen? He found himself relaxing in increments with his herald and friend beside him. They’d both been through far too much and that they were still stood here, together, gave him cause to rejoice.

He’d been thinking for the last few days on what they were to do next and had been decided in everything except a few crucial details. Part of the reason of his being stood so long on the dunes that night had been the weight of it all upon him. He glanced up at the night sky, the stars staring back and weighed his options again for a few minutes and then, with little resignation, made his mind up. It was instantly as if a veil had been lifted from his mind.

Before he might dwell on it further, he turned to Elrond and fixed him with a look. Elrond arched a very fine brow again.

“What were you planning to do in the valley now that it no longer needs to be simply a fortress?” he asked, turning serious once more.

Elrond blinked and took a breath, clearly not expecting the question or guessing the direction his king was taking.

“I had thought,” he said slowly, as if unsure of the reaction he would receive, “that I might make a more permanent residence there. Not to stay all the time, you understand, but there are those of Celebrimbor’s people and a good deal of our own who have taken to the lands and do not wish to leave. I did not want to presume-“

“Then you shall,” Gil-Galad cut in, a real smile forming at last, for he was glad once more to see that their thinking was in the same direction. It saved a lot of bother in the long run. “You shall have rule over the valley as vice-regent. I can think of no other who would be best fitting for the position. You know full well you’d be more than entitled to my crown were you to ask for it.”

“We’ve held this discussion before-“ Elrond started, but Gil-Galad held up a hand to stop him and Elrond pressed his lips together, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes and nodded. “Then you are most generous and I would whole-heartedly accept your offer.”

“Good! Then you shall accept this, too,” and then Gil-Galad took a breath and slipped off the ring he wore upon his right hand and taking Elrond’s, pressed it into his palm and firmly closed his fingers over it.

Elrond gasped. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, clearly shocked.

“It is Vilya, the Ring of Air. I suspect that a good many of our people will follow you to the valley and placed as it is, I wish for you to keep it and them safe. You will need this more than I in the future, I can already foresee that much. Keep it secret, apart from to those you trust the most.”

Elrond made as if to protest, to hand it back, spluttering in a way most unlike him, but Gil-Galad simply took a step backwards and shook his head slowly.

“It is mine to relinquish and now it is yours. I do not see myself having any further need of its power and before you say aught against that, that is not a blessing upon you. I wish that none of us had need of such things, but these are the times that we must live through and play our parts. Mine, now, is to pass this on. Use it wisely. I know you will.”

“Your Highness.” Elrond was paler than usual, unfurling his fingers and looking down at the ring in his palm. He picked it up and looked at it properly for the first time, Gil-Galad watching with a sadder smile now as he slowly pushed it onto his finger and closed his eyes.

Although the guilt at giving the burden of such power away was not insignificant, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his soul.

When Elrond opened his eyes again, he could see they were brighter than before and he nodded once. “Come and see me tomorrow,” he said simply and turning, left him as he returned to the palace on the hill.

Elrond stood for the remainder of the night and watched the skies as slowly the sun rose on the horizon before him and Eärendil had once again passed into the West.


End file.
